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Chapter Five

John

Melodiouswhistling followed bya series of pops. His recurring nightmare always startedthesame way.

He stood in the mass of chaos as the terrifying scene played out in his mind. People screaming, pushing, shoving, running away in all directions as gunshots rang out. His father pushed him down onto cold, wet ground, then spun around like a rag doll as he was hit. His mother followed, her hands reaching out for both John and his father, as blood blossomed on her chest. A searing pain burned through his side as another bullet hit its mark, taking him to the ground only feet from his fallen parents.

He crawled hopelessly toward his unmoving father and mother. Finally giving in to the tragedy surrounding him, helay on the pavement beside his parents,bleeding,life draining out of themall. Sirens wailedin the distance. At least I'm with them as I die. It gave him some comfort. Hiseyes finally closed,andhe welcomed the darkness.

John awoke with a cry of anguish, flinging himself up, almost falling out of his bed. He reached desperately for his inhaler on the bedside table, gasping for air as his lungs squeezed tight. He sucked in the medication, letting it fill his lungs and ease his breathing. Sweat poured from him as he sat up and looked around his lonely bedroom.

The nightmare had come and gone as it always did, leaving him desperate for relief from the pain inside him. His asthma started shortly after the shooting, and the doctors chalked it up to the bullet that tore through his right lung—something called stress-induced asthma. Not only had he lost his parents that day, but also his ability to breathe normally.

He lay back in bed and heaved a shuddering sigh. After that traumatic night, he'd woken up in the hospital and spent agonizing weeks healing. Afterward, when he was discharged, he'd felt nothing but overwhelming anger at surviving when his family hadn't. Survivor's guilt was real and all it consisted of was pain.

At his parents' funeral, a lone trumpet played as the caskets were lowered into the ground. His father's distinguished military career provided that honor. Sixteen-year-old John sat stoically among the mourners as soldiers in uniform carried flags and guns with all due pomp and circumstance. Words of comfort uttered by the priest only brought grief, as the moment closer to when his parents would be sealed in the ground forever drew near.

John couldn't help wishing he could throw himself into the hole with them. The woman who loved him, taught him compassion, and bandaged all his wounds, and the man who'd taught him about honor and his love of woodworking and flying, were dead, and nothing in this world would ever be right again.

He threw himself back onto the mattress and stared blankly at the ceiling. Many times over the years, John had considered ending his pain; the only thing stopping him was the knowledge that his parents would be disappointed in the waste of the life they'd tried so hard to preserve.

Perhaps one day I won't have my inhaler handy and the decision will be made for me. The idea gave him a sense of macabre comfort.

I'm definitely fucked up.

There'd be no sleeping for him that night, so John got up and fixed himself a coffee. He still had boxes stacked up around his new temporary home from his recent move. His priority had been getting the shop up and running, rather than unpacking his personal belongings. He couldn't help but stare at the one box that had been sealed for the last twenty-two years. His father had left the box for John after his death, located in a safety deposit box at their local bank. He hadn't even known about its existence until the bank reached out to him when he turned twenty-one.

His father's brother, Uncle Forester, had dealt with all the division of assets and the sale of their family home while John went to live with his Aunt Becky, his mother's sister.

John hadn't even bothered to open it, thinking it likely contained personal items and family heirlooms. He didn't have the heart to sift through it all, bringing back painful memories—trinkets of a life that ended in violence and, if the police were to be believed, a targeted murder plot to take his family's lives. John had a hard time believing it. Who would want to shoot his parents, a military man and a primary school teacher? Hell, who would want to shoothim?

It had to have been a "wrong place, wrong time" scenario. He couldn't believe it was anything other. Whoever it was, they never returned to finish the job with John, and for years he wished they would.

He closed his eyes and let out a relaxing breath, trying to center himself.

Detective Woodley's phone call today had been unexpected and alarming. Why would they reopen such an old case? He'd have to call the detective back in the morning, but for now, John sat at the kitchen table drinking his coffee and staring at the box containing what was left of any importance to his parents.

Maybe he'd have the heart to open the box someday, but today wasn't that day. Just like all the other days before.

***

Stryker

When Spencer entered the kitchen the next morning, Strkyer asked, "Whatcha got?"

The day befoe, he'd asked Spencer to find out a little more about the elusive John Seya. It had taken some convincing but Stryker had managed it. He guessed they were all curious about John's past and committed to his well-being. And with the murder case being reopened, that meant whoever had killed John's family was still out there. John may be in danger too.

"A hell of a lot less than I expected," said Spencer. "And you were right—he may be at risk."

"What do you mean?" Stryker narrowed his eyes, his protective instincts welling up.

"It appears John's father was in the Air Force. An illustrious career with several deployments ending with him becoming a trainer."

"I'm guessing that's where John's love of flying came from," Stryker said absently.

"His mother was a schoolteacher, Evelyn, age forty-two when she died, and his father was Frank, age forty-five. Both were shot and killed in what was believed to be a targeted shooting twenty-two years ago on the streets of Hood River back in Oregon."

"Targeted? Did that include John? Who were the suspects?"

"It seems he was part of the hit too. And there weren't any suspects at the time," Spencer said while typing away on his laptop.

"There had to be somebody. They were targeted for some reason." This wasn't making any sense. Who would target a family with a sixteen-year-old kid?

"The case went nowhere. The three of them were shot in broad daylight on a city street, and they had no suspects. I find that hard to believe," Spencer said. "No one else was hit."

"So do I. Were the cops bought off?" Then what Spencer had said finally registered with Stryker. "What do you mean all three were shot? Was John hit?"

"Yep, right side. The bullet went between the fifth and sixth ribs and penetrated his right lung. They were able to save his life, but John lost a quarter of his right lung and likely gained that breathing condition of his."

"You mean his asthma?"

"Yes. There's no mention of any asthma-related illness in his medical records before that date," Spencer said while holding up a file that had been lying on the table beside him.

"So not only did he lose his parents, but he was also shot and ended up with a life-altering condition. That's fucked up. Then, without any suspects, the case was closed."

"Right. Well, at least it was, but it's open again by the looks of things now."

"What information did they receive or uncover to make them reopen the case?" It had to be good with a case that old.

"That's it; I can't find a record of any new leads anywhere within the file."

"That's strange."

"You're telling me. I reached out to a few friends who are doing some digging around for me. I should have some answers within the next couple of days."

"Thanks, Spence. I appreciate you looking into this," Stryker said.

"Looking into what?" Brick asked as he walked into the room.

"John's parents' murder case," Spence answered.

"Right, Jason mentioned it was being reopened," Brick said.

"Yes, but we have no idea why," Stryker said.

"Going to need more than that," Brick said as he headed for the pot of coffee.

Spence recounted the information he'd managed to dig up.

"Something's off about this," Brick grumbled.

"Agreed."

"Let me know what you find," Brick said. "In the meantime, I think someone should hang close to John just in case someone comes back to finish the job now that the case has been reopened."

"After all this time, it's unlikely," Spence said.

"I've learned that unlikely shit has a habit of becoming a reality all too often," Brick said.

"I'll watch him," Stryker offered.

"Okay. I'll send Fletcher out on that other job in your place until we resolve this."

"Thanks." Stryker appreciated that Brick hadn't made a big deal about him wanting to watch over John.

Brick nodded, and Stryker headed for his truck. No better time than the present to start bodyguard duty. John should be at the shop by now, where Stryker was headed. His new mission was clear.

Ensure the man who'd lost so much already didn't suffer any further.

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